it is what it is
by whotellsyourstory
Summary: Steve wasn't about to let Tony snap his fingers without an argument or several. It was a thing they did. Afterwards, Bucky was forced to think of all the other things Steve did, as was probably appropriate during a funeral. Tony Stark was there, too, for some reason.


His whole life, Bucky had known he'd be burying Steve one day.

At first, it had been a taunting, slow-dawning omen in the sickly way the punk wheezed, coughed, dizzily swayed sometimes. People who looked like that didn't make it to their forties, in Bucky and Steve's world. Every day, Bucky would wake up, meet Steve, hope what he called 'dust and pollen' hadn't knocked him on his ass for good. And every day, Steve would show up, shoulders squared, an infuriating spring in his step and a cheerful greeting on his lips. Sometimes he sneezed, sometimes he tripped. Once he'd had a coughing fit so bad, Bucky had dragged him halfway across town before Steve had been able to glare up at him, eyes watery and an unhealthy flush on his cheeks, and tell him he didn't 'need no doctor'.

Sometimes, Bucky missed the simmering worry of their younger years. His concern had been a stove on the lowest setting. What came next, when the only thing still recognizable about Steve was his face, apart from his entire character, was the universe shamelessly laughing at him and at Steve's death wish, in an ironic careful-what-you-wish-for sort of way. The stove burning the house down.

Steve had always been a reckless fighter. Captain America made him _dangerous_. He could do impossible things, every day more impossible than the last. If he could jump off a height of fifty meters, then maybe he could jump off eighty. One week, he crashed through windows unscathed, the next, he crashed through _walls _unscathed. Steve had fun testing his limits. Bucky wished he would start wheezing again.

He never said anything because Steve wouldn't appreciate being fussed over, and this mother-hen instinct was something he'd cultivated growing up with the punk that was no longer a punk, which meant it needed to be squashed down. This Steve didn't need Bucky to worry about his health anymore.

And, somehow, nothing had changed. Because every day, Bucky would wake up, meet Steve, hope this wasn't the day his race against his own genetically-modified limits would knock him on his ass for good. And every day, Steve would show up, shoulders squared, an infuriating spring in his step and a cheerful greeting on his lips. It was just that now, Bucky had to look up to return it, there was no heavy breathing, and the conversation was about the war's endless progress and their current mission, instead of the insipid going-ons of Brooklyn, New York City.

Nothing changed right up until the day Bucky was the one racing, and losing, hanging off somewhere he shouldn't be for not very long at all. He fell watching Steve's heart-wrenching expression disappear into the snow and the distance, and thought '_oh_'. Turned out he'd been wrong his whole life. Burying Steve was never going to be his job.

(He was wrong.)

Sometimes, Bucky thought about the decades that followed and wondered if they'd felt as cold and dark to Steve, sunk into ice, as they'd felt for him, sunk into his own head.

There was a new, twisted, inhuman part of him responsible for thoughts like that now. It kept the rest of him busy obsessing over what was real and what was a product of that festering wound of the kind Bucky had seen often enough to know would never heal.

Steve still had that apparent death wish, though, and that helped.

"I think I got complacent, with the shield."

Bucky's nose wrinkled. Steve was prodding and poking at a wound on his side, like a curious child fascinated by newly-learned gruesome bodily functions. It was halfway through healed already, naturally – Steve hadn't even bothered to visit Wakanda's medical facilities. Bucky slapped his hand away and the frown on Steve's face was directed at him instead.

"That thing was the size of a dinner plate. What kind of difference could it really make?"

Steve's scowl deepened. Bucky would've felt contrite, were he in a better mood. Unfortunately, days like this – when Steve's ragtag team of unshaven war criminals showed up in Wakanda beaten and bloodied because missions were _harder _without any legal or billionaire-funded support – never allowed room for good spirits. He thought he'd caught sight of Romanoff _limping _her way to painkillers – if _that_ wasn't an indication of the kind of disaster that had forced Steve's visit, Bucky was loath to find out what was.

Steve didn't look very cheerful, either, but then again, Steve hadn't looked cheerful for about a year now.

"You'd be surprised how much of a difference a vibranium dinner plate can make," he muttered. "For instance, maybe Nat wouldn't have broken her leg if-"

"Sorry, I can't hear you over all the self-pity," Bucky interrupted, yawning. Steve huffed and threw himself backwards on Bucky's comforter. He suddenly resembled, powerfully, the feeble kid Bucky had met in his teens, and it made him feel restless. "You miss the shield so much, why'd you drop it?"

Steve froze. Bucky was also somewhat shocked by his own boldness. "Don't be callous."

"Legitimate question," Bucky mumbled, but he wasn't so sure it was.

Steve gave him a sharp look. "For you."

Bucky didn't know a two-worded answer could inspire such conflicting feelings in him. "You could've kept it. You should've kept it."

"No."

"You didn't have to listen to Stark-"

"_Yes, I did_."

"So, guilt? Self-loathing? I have some experience in that-"

"I either dropped _it_, or I dropped you, and I would _never_-"

"I don't think we're talking about the shield anymore."

Silence fell. Steve closed his eyes. "I miss Tony," he confessed, like what he was saying was shameful; like Bucky had finally given him permission or an excuse to admit to something simple and very complicated.

"There it is."

The problem with Steve's death wish was that it was supposed to cover everyone else's ass. Sometimes, though, in his rush to protect one friend, he allowed another to break apart. In turn, that broke Steve as well.

Bucky was in the worst possible position to have this conversation with him. If it went too far, Steve would end up having to comfort _him_. Maybe he'd ask Sam to do his shrink thing, later. Instead, Bucky nudged – shoved – Steve's leg away and sat down too.

"You have any contact with him at all since?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't think I'm invited to his wedding," he said, and it was probably an attempt at humor, but it sounded hollow.

Bucky couldn't tell Steve he'd done the right thing, because Bucky felt intimately responsible for the despondent expression on Steve's face right then. "Would you have done things differently – if I was him and he was me?"

Steve pursed his lips. "Tony would make fun of me for suggesting he'd need my help getting out from under the wrong side of the law."

"So, that's a no, then."

Steve shrugged. "It's a 'it is what it is', actually."

_It is what it is_. Steve would give up his life for any one of his friends in a heartbeat. That had never changed in all the years Bucky had known him, even if everything else had. That's just how it was.

Bucky sighed. "I'd like the chance to- I wish we could mend things with him." he said softly, because honesty was the only card he had left.

Steve looked up at him sharply, urgently. "You'll get the chance," he vowed. Bucky noted the chosen pronoun with some sadness. "Tony would never - he'll be beating himself up worse for what he did to you than anything I did to him."

Bucky shifted in place, silently. "He'll be missing you too, you know. I could see it."

Steve scoffed, a small, pained smile on his face. "Did you figure that out before or after he found out I lied to him? Because all I could see right then was betrayal."

"Before," Bucky answered truthfully. He scratched the back of his neck. "Can't feel that much betrayal without love, Steve."

Steve had stared at him speechlessly, helplessly, and let the conversation die.

Bucky had learned one consistent thing, from the moment his best friend – some kid from Brooklyn – decided he was going to enlist and that was that, because Steve didn't believe in not doing exactly what he wanted to get done. He'd learned to accept chaos and unpredictability for what they were, and to take things as they came. He'd learned Steve was not the type of hero that lived to see the end of his tragedies.

Life took some strange twists and turns, Bucky figured, staring at a stone with the name _Steve Rogers_ engraved into it. Out of all the things to remain a constant, this particular prediction felt like several kicks to the gut.

Tony Stark had come to Captain America's funeral dressed in a very sleek, long coat in the darkest shade of black Bucky had ever seen. Underneath, it allowed a glimpse of a non-descript white shirt and black tie, and below, where the hem of the coat brushed his knees, perfectly ironed black pants and dark shoes. There was no hair or speck of dust out of place. He'd even brushed his mop in a manner _not_ reminiscent of a teen rebel wannabe.

He looked, appropriately, like a very important man clocking in his appropriate appearance at the funeral of another very important man, appropriately checking a balance in some sort of invisible social ledger. It was all very appropriate.

And yet Stark's eyes were red-rimmed, which was the only thing that felt even vaguely real or familiar about this man Bucky barely knew. He said nothing as black-coat-and-red-eyes approached.

Bucky was crouching by Steve's tombstone, waiting for something he couldn't really spell out, but Stark didn't lower himself. Bucky to the right, almost on his knees, and Tony to the left, gazing down at the flowers, the fresh inscription, the recently disturbed dirt. The rest of the attendees had given them a wide berth.

"Are we ever gonna talk about it?" Stark wondered aloud, not looking at Bucky.

"It?"

"Alright, good talk, unfinished business is all finished now."

"This really the time and place?" Bucky demanded roughly.

Stark finally hesitated, but the contrition was gone in a second. "I think so."

Bucky mulled that over, nodded, and jerked his head to the stone, _Steve Rogers _emblazoned under the sun. "What if we talk about him instead?"

"It's usually harder for me to talk about anything that isn't myself, but- sure, I'll make an exception," Stark replied blandly.

"Thoughtful of you."

"Are you alright?"

Bucky didn't answer that and didn't look at him, because the uneasy earnestness in his tone was a promise for the look on his face. Stark was an interesting guy. The last time they'd seen each other, some two to seven years ago, he was making an attempt on Bucky's life. This time, he was sharing in his grief and asking about his well-being.

Whatever emotional complexity was required of them both right then, Bucky wasn't capable of it. He didn't know whether Stark was, either. So, he retreated back to what felt familiar – he projected.

"Is this- _guilt_?" Bucky spoke aloud. "Because – you know, he'd regret outliving you every single day for the rest of his life."

"I will, too."

"Don't be an idiot."

"I'm not. I regret enough things already. I know how to deal with it."

Bucky wasn't so sure. Stark didn't seem like the kind of guy who accepted things left broken before their time. He would probably come to that conclusion on his own, eventually, so Bucky didn't mention it.

"I've been scared to death, for years and years," he said, and couldn't understand why he was speaking, "that I'd have to bury him one day. Knowing it would happen."

There was a prolonged silence.

"Huh," Stark muttered. "Me too."

Bucky shifted to glance up at him. "Y'know, Steve told me we were a lot alike. Never really believed him," he noted. "He can be- not the worst judge of character, but not the best, either, when it comes to his friends."

Stark hummed. "Guy didn't branch out much, did he? I kept telling him he needed to meet new people."

Now that Bucky was really looking at him, he realized Stark had brought a prop, half-hidden behind his coat. He reached out and tugged at the flash of red, white and blue, and it came away from Stark's hands easily.

Once he had Captain America's shield in his hands, he realized he didn't really want to hold it anymore. Stark took it in stride when he immediately shoved it back into his arms. He held it out patiently.

"He should've been buried with this," Bucky said, touching two fingers to the cool, smooth edge.

"He wouldn't have wanted that," Stark replied automatically, and Bucky knew it was true. "Optics would be terribly depressing. And you know how he was a man of optics."

That startled the first laugh out of Bucky since Steve's death. "He didn't always want the things that should be."

"Yeah. But he had this way about him – always did get what he wanted exactly how he wanted it."

Bucky thought long and hard about that. "Nah. Not everything."

"What mattered the most, then," Tony corrected himself.

"Maybe. Sometimes."

Stark flipped the shield around, like he was holding a toy and not a weapon, a symbol. He caught Bucky staring at the action and quirked his lips. "You know, Captain America was never really a man," Stark hinted. "More of an idea, really."

It was half-hearted, which is why Bucky didn't get angry. "No," he said, eyes set on the tomb, "he was a man."

Stark exhaled heavily, and it was hollow. He put the shield down gently, held up against the gravestone. "Yeah. Guess he was."

"Give it to Wilson."

"You think so?"

_No one better suited. _"Steve would've wanted him to have it."

Stark nodded once, firmly. "I will, then." He fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, his version of careful dithering, and then cleared his throat. "You don't need the shield to make yourself useful, by the way."

Bucky clenched his teeth and said nothing. Stark sighed, apparently getting the message.

"You change your mind," he said, and Bucky was already standing, brushing himself off, "you have my number."

And that is how they left things, a tentative promise, a shiny new shield tucked away for a sunny day, and a handshake over a grave. Life took some twists and turns, Bucky figured, staring at a stone with the name _Steve Rogers_ engraved into it. Predictions were messy and painful. He figured he might do well to live without them from then on out.


End file.
